Long enough for delicate snowflakes to melt into her hair, dampening the ends. A chill seeped under her warm coat, although she wasn’t sure it actually had anything to do with the weather.
The thought of letting Evan back into any part of her life sent panic skittering across her skin.
But she didn’t have a better option.
Gripping the top of the door, she called, “Follow me,” across the empty night before she could change her mind.
He didn’t answer, although she really didn’t give him a chance, slamming the door shut between them. Not that the empty symbolic gesture would save her.
He either followed or he didn’t. Now the choice was his.
* * *
EVAN DROVE BEHIND the sleek, growling, piece of American machinery. It didn’t surprise him to see that Tatum owned a vintage Mustang. That was his girl, always appreciative of the power and precision of a well-made car.
There had been a time, in their younger years, when she’d have opened it up, letting the car eat asphalt. They’d both loved the adrenaline rush of going fast. It was something they shared.
Whether it was the unpredictable weather and slick roads or something else, he wasn’t sure, but tonight Tatum kept the car at a respectable pace as she led him through town, down a quaint little Main Street lined with shops and boutiques and into a neighborhood of cookie-cutter houses.
The entire town looked like a gingerbread house had thrown up all over it. Everywhere he looked, there were candy canes and blinking lights, wreaths and evergreen garlands strung with glittering tinsel.
It was idyllic. The kind of place that should be the setting for a made-for-TV movie about the magic of Christmas. The whole place made the spot right between his shoulder blades itch.
He wondered how Tatum felt about the obvious, in-your-face peace on earth and goodwill toward men theme Sweetheart had going.
This time of year had always been difficult for her. A reminder of everything that had gone wrong and all she’d lost. When they had been together, Evan had always gone out of his way to keep a smile on her face from Thanksgiving to Christmas. Leaving little notes and surprise gifts. Nothing fancy or expensive. Trinkets. Toys. Whatever would lighten her heart just a bit.
He wondered who was helping her keep the grief and guilt that she struggled with at bay.
Tatum turned into a driveway halfway down the street. The door for the garage rose and she maneuvered the Mustang inside. Without stopping to think about it, Evan pulled into the space beside her, which was mostly empty except for a row of plastic bins, a ladder and a mountain bike with a helmet hanging from one handlebar.
Kicking out the stand, he let the weight of his Harley settle beneath him as the engine went silent. Behind him, the garage door whirred shut, plunging them into a murky darkness that was alleviated only by the diffuse light of a single bulb above them.
Tatum sat in her car, hands gripping the steering wheel as she stared straight at the back wall of the garage. For a brief moment, he thought about walking around and pulling her out, but decided it was better to let her set the pace of this conversation.
It was going to be difficult enough.
Evan watched her shoulders rise and fall on a single, deep breath. Her eyes slid shut and the muscles along her shoulders tightened.
He wanted nothing more than to wrap her in his arms and promise her everything would be okay. But she’d made it very clear she didn’t want him to touch her. Yet.
Although he wasn’t entirely certain how long he would be able to deny the need roaring inside him. Three years was a damn long time, especially with drug kingpins constantly thrusting half-naked girls in his face.
He’d gotten a reputation as being cold and indifferent, ignoring all of the female flesh dangled as enticement.
The other men in the cartel had viewed his refusal as a sign of weakness, used it as an excuse to challenge his position within the organization. Even knowing it could cost him his life, he hadn’t touched any of the women. That had been his line in the sand, because what good would living do him if he couldn’t come home to Tatum with a clear conscience?
In the end, having to defend himself against the men who mistook his choice for vulnerability had worked in his favor, even if the price had been bloody and unpleasant. The moment he’d driven a seven-inch knife straight through another man’s hand rather than be forced to lose his principles, his trajectory straight into the heart of the cartel had been assured.
No one questioned him again.
Unfortunately, he’d become something of a challenge to the women who tried to entice him. Not that he’d been tempted.
However, the desire that had lain dormant as scantily clad women paraded around in front of him reared up now to nearly choke him. A primitive, pounding need surged through him, a steady beat through his brain. His hands shook with the instinct to touch Tatum, hold her, finally reclaim her as his.
He needed to get a tight grip on his control or he was going to screw this up totally. He’d been around men who viewed women as commodities way too long, apparently. But at least he was smart enough to realize Tatum would not respond well to that kind of behavior.
Clenching his hands into fists, Evan set them on his thighs and waited.
She finally pushed from the car, juggling a couple of bags and her purse. The slap of her boots against the concrete floor echoed through the cold space of her quiet garage.
She bobbled her bags, shuffling everything around so she could insert her key into the lock. Evan shot forward, trying to take some of the burden from her arms, but she jerked everything out of his reach.
Pushing inside, she dumped it all onto a bench beside the door and kept going. The dress bag slithered to the floor in a heap. Tatum ignored it. Evan couldn’t, reaching down to pick it up and fold it neatly back into place.
She continued through a small kitchen with a pile of dishes in the sink and into a den where she flicked on a single lamp. Warmth flooded the room and he knew immediately this was her sanctuary.
He also knew which chair was her favorite, could envision her curled up, feet tucked beneath her body and a heavy terra-cotta mug cradled between her hands as she stared sightlessly out the long window into the backyard, deep green eyes bleary as she waited for her first cup of coffee to kick in.
Tatum was not a morning person. But he’d always liked that about her. And had shamelessly taken advantage of that fact any chance he could, using her lethargy to convince her another hour in bed was a good idea...especially if they spent it together.
He hadn’t realized the ghost of a smile played across his lips until the snap of Tatum’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Stop smirking.”
His gaze whipped to hers, the tug disappearing from his mouth. “I’m not.”
Tatum stood behind a chocolate-brown sofa, her hands curled over the back as if it was the only lifeline keeping her safe.
“Oh, you were. I
